&if you don't love me now, you'll never love me again.
In this story, I have nightmares all night about the end of the world. In them Mohammad tells me to look at the shape of the clouds, and Jesus Christ just shakes his head. When I wake up- in my waking life, there are men screaming. Yelling in the streets. It's just a parade, you know some aftermath of The Super Bowl- but what about Super Tuesday? Eli Manning, you're very handsome but I want a parade for Barack Obama. Him and his wife send me e-mails, do they send you them too? "One last thing," Michelle will write.
I feel like I am really not in it enough- I had to send in an absentee ballot because I still belong in all of these ways to Florida. When I close my eyes it is usually still a vast, white ocean and an unanswered telephone call. In Florida, I am buying magazines at Walgreens. I am buying sleeping pills at CVS. I see all the lovers of my youth languishing pouting their faces at me, knowing I did it it on purpose (some version of revenge, what Jesus Christ wanted) and I lay postulating, knowing that was for me, that when Mohammad went to Mecca I should have adorned my eyes with- well- something more.
In this story, we have perfect posture. We're on the campaign table. Oprah pushes some hair out of my eyes and the sirens in the street are for the mourners not the quarter backs. We don't waste our time with lawyers, or even doctors for that manner. Sitting with a room of famous people, I fold my legs and just feel the same way I always have. Getting up to microwave a bowl of rice.
I want to be one of those people that verbally illustrates all of my points to strangers, which is probably what you think I am doing now, but this is just all fluff.
I feel like I am really not in it enough- I had to send in an absentee ballot because I still belong in all of these ways to Florida. When I close my eyes it is usually still a vast, white ocean and an unanswered telephone call. In Florida, I am buying magazines at Walgreens. I am buying sleeping pills at CVS. I see all the lovers of my youth languishing pouting their faces at me, knowing I did it it on purpose (some version of revenge, what Jesus Christ wanted) and I lay postulating, knowing that was for me, that when Mohammad went to Mecca I should have adorned my eyes with- well- something more.
In this story, we have perfect posture. We're on the campaign table. Oprah pushes some hair out of my eyes and the sirens in the street are for the mourners not the quarter backs. We don't waste our time with lawyers, or even doctors for that manner. Sitting with a room of famous people, I fold my legs and just feel the same way I always have. Getting up to microwave a bowl of rice.
I want to be one of those people that verbally illustrates all of my points to strangers, which is probably what you think I am doing now, but this is just all fluff.